There were shotgun shells all over the floor among the sea of clothes with stains on them all, restless possessions littered with the mess, neglected, until they served some further purpose to his plan. There was an empty glass on every surface, surrounded by pencils, pens, and markers. Words spilled from one wall to the other, in a sea of shapes, doodles, sketches. Papers were pinned on top of the notes with the same symbols, letters, and numbers, written furiously with an equally heavy hand. Cigarette butts piled in the ashtrays positioned in spots in the shadow, except for one next to the lone, single window. His shotgun was to the side, in the darkest corner furthest away from the window, but within easy reach of the door and the bed.

He turned and stared as I looked around, watching my face to see my reaction. A slight smile appeared, so slight, so fleeting, and probably rare.

He walked in not bothering to move the objects on the floor—probably already knew which spots to avoid anyways.

He sat on the bed, back to the wall and facing me at the entrance; still smiling, probably laughing at the reaction to the bed, to the floor, to the walls. It was nothing I’ve ever seen before. In all the other rooms, the walls are bare, unnaturally clean, and empty; the rooms were quiet, and without a thought. Here, it was different. It was a maniac frenzy, an obsession that screamed.

A glance at the window, the only clear space in the room. He didn’t say anything, but I understood.

You could tell that he never stopped.